by David Estes
He takes his time with the beans, as if relishing a five-course meal.
“So…” I say.
He keeps chewing each bite about twenty times. Is he worried about indigestion?
“Why were you such a jerk to me earlier?”
He stops for a second, but then finishes chewing his current bite. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty…gulp. “You weren’t exactly welcoming,” he says.
“You shot at us.”
“Not at you. Into the air. A warning that we were coming.”
“Might want to try a different approach next time.”
“Fair enough. Anyway, you were rude to Bil Nez. He’s done a lot of good for New America. And you obviously don’t like him. He’s got a lot of friends around here, so you might want to be careful.”
Bil Nez…has friends? Hot dog. I never would’ve guessed it. “He hasn’t been the most reliable person lately.”
“You mean his ‘episodes’?” Hemsworth takes the time to put down his plate to create air-quotes with his fingers, another thing I wouldn’t expect him to do. Next to his camo garb and serious expression, he almost looks like he’s an actor in some strange play.
“You know about that?” I thought it was some big secret.
“It’s kind of obvious, isn’t it? I mean, one minute he’s saving your life and acting all tough and cocky, and the next he’s a mean, unpredictable punk. PTSD will do weird things to a guy.”
“Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “Most of the time he leaves New Washington when he gets that way, and we don’t try to stop him. He always comes back in one piece, though I have no clue what he does when he’s away. Missions for the president or shooting at birds…it’s not my business.”
“Mostly betraying us,” I say.
“I see.” He doesn’t seem surprised.
“Or saving us,” I add, grudgingly.
“Ah,” he says.
The fire crackles and Gertie pushes the squirrel meat around, waiting for her next customer. I can tell she’s listening to our conversation.
The Destroyer makes another pass overhead, a shadowy blur, like a huge bat. There’s a flash of red and orange down the fence a-ways. A ball of fire next to a dark profile. “Is that a…” I don’t want to finish the question because I already know the answer.
“A Pyro,” Hemsworth confirms.
I’ve only got so much acceptance left in me today, and this crosses the line. I’m on my feet in an instant, my plate discarded upside-down in the grass. Hemsworth scrambles after me, but I’m already running toward the Pyro, who turns toward me, the fireball revealing her brown skin and white teeth.
“Laney!” Hemsworth warns, but I don’t stop until I’m a few feet from the witch, who casually creates a second fireball, balancing one on each palm.
Slightly out of breath, I say, “Did you know…Chuck and Mindy…Grant?” My parents. Did you know my parents? I want to scream.
The witch nods slowly, passing the fireballs back and forth between her hands.
“Which side of the fence would they be on now if they were alive?” I ask.
Hemsworth reaches my side, but doesn’t touch me.
The Pyro opens her mouth to speak, but then closes it. She jerks her head in the direction of the fence. Outside the fence. I bite my lip and nod. Outside of the fence. Where Trish is. Where the bad magic-born are. Those who would hurt us.
“Thank you,” I say, before walking away from the Pyro, once more leaving Hemsworth behind.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Trish
The warlock arrives at dawn. Outwardly, he appears worn and bedraggled, like a crumpled up newspaper, his clothes loose and wrinkled.
But on the inside, where only her people can see, he’s a lion.
“Get out,” the red Changeling commands.
No, Trish says, making sure the contradiction carries to everyone’s mind.
The Changeling’s head jerks toward her and she can see the anger in her eyes, flashing for a moment before disappearing in a beam of light cutting through the forest canopy. Trish knows she’s made the witch look weak in front of her people, the other Changelings who drift in and out of camp like wraiths, never looking the same on the outside, changing identity as often as a baby’s diaper. But she can recognize them all the same. And yet…the witch doesn’t fight back. Not when she still needs Trish’s help. After she helps her…what then? Does their temporary pact die?
All Trish’s experience tells her the answer is yes.
I want to speak with him, Trish says, because she knows this man. Not from a past lifetime, but from this one. He looks the same as the beggar in the store, Martin Carter, except that he no longer has his thick coat. She searches his memories and watches as he casts the coat aside in the woods. Not randomly, purposefully. A sign for someone else who might be following him.
“Very well,” the Changeling leader says, stepping aside and pretending to busy herself instructing her people. Such funny games she likes to play.
Martin Carter steps forward, the lion inside him glowing with white light, brighter than the sun. But Trish doesn’t blink or shield her eyes. The light doesn’t hurt her. She remembers that the warlock cannot speak the normal way. Speak in your mind, she instructs, talking only to him so the red witch cannot hear her. Our conversation will be private.
The man doesn’t nod, but she can see he understands. She reaches into his mind, letting her consciousness flow alongside his, a single stream of light. A lion and a Mother.
You have changed, he says.
I was always the same, she says. I just didn’t know it.
His mental nod is easily discernable. I know why you camp here, he says.
“Here” is less than two miles from New Washington. Her children have hidden them from the witch hunters, who pass through occasionally, patrolling their borders.
And you think we are making a mistake, she says, understanding.
I don’t know, he says. I cannot see beyond what my eyes reveal. But my son is there. In New Washington.
The words hit her sharply, burrowing to the core of her being like worms. Rhett Carter is in New Washington. She remembers the beams of light returning to her, whispering to her that they had succeeded in their mission. Laney and Rhett had been brought back together. Which means that…
My sister is in New Washington, she says.
The beggar doesn’t need to confirm. Does this change anything for you? he asks.
She hides her mind from him. Ponders the question. If she lets her sister-from-this-life dictate her actions, she could doom all of humanity. That goes against everything she believes in. But she does love her. Their years together cannot be cast aside as easily as a rock from a shoe. And yet…
The president must die, she says. It’s what her Children have been telling her. But why? She has to trust them until her own knowledge is complete. Although her powers far exceed those of her Children, she is not invincible. Consistent with all Claires, she can control elements of nature and commune with the earth. She can invade thoughts, control dreams, and coax glimpses of the future from the very fabric of time. Protection spells are possible, although they take a lot out of her. Her blood carries many secrets. And her true voice has the power to destroy.
However, like all magic-born, overuse of magic will drain her energy, leaving her in need of rest and recovery. Killing the president might mean she can’t save her sister, or vice versa. She can almost feel the choice looming over her like a dark shadow.
I don’t disagree, Martin says. She knows he speaks the truth. He wants the president dead, too. She knows she should understand why this woman is such a threat, but something from the past remains hidden to her. She considers asking this man, but no one can know her weakness. She stays silent.
I’m not telling you to stop, he says. I’m making you aware.
The Changeling doesn’t want the Claires inside New Washington
. Only to help her get inside.
But that’s not what you want? Martin asks. Despite the wall she’s thrown up, she realizes this man has sensed her true mind.
No, she admits. I want to be there for it all.
Good, Martin says. I don’t fully trust the red witch’s motives.
She will spare no one who stands in her way, even the innocent, Trish says.
Then we will watch over them, Martin says. We will protect those who deserve it.
Thank you, she says. Go in peace.
He turns and walks away, his footfalls as loud as cannon blasts next to the silent glide of the Changelings and Claires.
The Changeling leader watches her, but doesn’t approach. Though she tries to hide her mind from Trish, Trish can read the witch’s thoughts as easily as a child’s, her powers strengthening with each passing day. The woman’s thoughts only speak one thing:
Violence.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Rhett
One of Grogg’s legs drags behind him, as if pulling a ball and chain. The creature leaves a muddy trail for me to follow, almost like a slug smearing sticky mucus. Hex, nose to the floor, sniffs at the filth.
At this pace, it will be three days later before we get to our destination.
When we reach the stairs, Hex goes slightly mad (as he does) and sneaks up behind Grogg, unleashing a deep-throated WOOF! into the creature’s ear. The mud-thing takes off, tripping on the second step and rolling the rest of the way to the bottom, where it promptly clambers to its feet and bolts out of the White House entrance.
We give chase, Hex barking at Grogg and me shouting commands to a dog that listens to no one. As before, the mud-creature moves far quicker than one would expect, particularly considering the leg-dragging thing it was doing earlier. I’m beginning to suspect that was all an act, or perhaps a loss in concentration.
Luckily, though, despite the fact that Grogg weaves in and out of the various debris littering New Washington, he leaves a fairly obvious trail for us to follow. We’re moving through the buildings, searching for our guide, when Hex stops abruptly, his nose twitching.
He looks left. He looks right.
There’s a cry from above—a strange, whispery Ehhhhh!—and Grogg flies from a second story windowsill, landing directly on Hex’s back. Hex freaks, running and leaping and bucking like a rodeo bull, trying to dislodge the unwanted rider. He could probably use any one of a number of magical powers to get rid of the mud-creature, but it’s as if he’s forgotten what he is—that he’s more than a normal dog. And the whole time, Grogg is making a noise that sounds—remarkably—like laughter.
The laughter is half-baby, half-crazy-old-man, and one hundred percent contagious. I find myself cracking up watching the spectacle, seeing someone outwit the unoutwittable.
Eventually, however, Hex realizes the situation and stops, breathing heavily. And then he vanishes, leaving Grogg to fall the foot and a half to the ground with a splat. Hex appears a moment later, grinning, and licks Grogg’s face, something he’s done to me many times. A declaration of victory. This time, instead of running away, the mud-creature opens its mouth and extends a long, brown tongue and licks him back.
Blech.
But Hex doesn’t seem to mind, his tail wagging ferociously. Is this the start of an unexpected (and somewhat freakish) friendship? Only time will tell.
Grogg pulls himself back to his feet, waves a hand as if to say “Follow me,” and then ducks into an alley. As Hex walks directly over the muddy footprints, I consider the possibility that Grogg may have a future as a trainer at Doggy Obedience School. I follow close behind.
The alley is much darker, the scant light from the moon and stars eclipsed by the high buildings. One with the shadows, Grogg’s huge white eyes blink at us. A flash of brown beckons us closer. Hex curls up next to the mud-creature while I tentatively step forward.
Grogg speaks, again in that whispery, gurgling voice. “Closer,” he says.
I take another step, so close now that I’m in danger of brushing against his muddy body. And yet…
“Closer,” he murmurs.
“Uh,” I say.
Hex circles behind me and shoves against my legs, clearly taking Grogg’s side.
I inch forward, slightly disgusted by the smell of wet mud, until the eyes are like giant saucers in the dark. Seemingly satisfied by my nearness, Grogg says, “Secrets and lies and dangers. Many dangers. Beware. Take heed. Remember. Distance yourself. Avoid. Feel nothing.”
His words, both the way he says them and their substance, send shivers down my spine. Feel nothing? What does that even mean? No one can feel nothing. “Beware of what?” I ask.
“Her,” he says. “The president.”
Wait a minute, I think, remembering what the president told me about Grogg’s creation. Crafted from mud by a witch, who controls his movements, who is controlling him even now, who is making him say these things. Has the president let the wrong witch into her fold? Someone secretly working against her?
“Take us to the witch hunters,” I say.
“Mistake,” Grogg says. “Trusting. Big mistake.”
“It’s my mistake to make,” I say, pulling away and slipping out of the alley. I’m half-surprised when Grogg follows me, silently leading us on down the street.
~~~
Honest Abe is missing his head. Apparently no one has bothered to even attempt to replace it atop his neck, as it rests cheek first on the ground next to his statue.
According to Grogg’s whisperings, the Lincoln Memorial has become home base for the various witch hunters hired by New America. When I look back outside, Grogg is gone.
Ignoring Abe’s head, which seems to stare at me, I peer at the sleeping forms around me, illuminated by dim lights along the edges of the floor. Their soft exhalations create a symphony of sleep.
“Ahem,” I cough, clearing my throat.
There’s a mad scramble and the clank of metal and the click of safeties being switched off, and then we’re surrounded by witch hunters, knives and swords and guns pointed at us. Awesome.
“Hi,” I say, wishing I had my sword.
“Who the hell are you?” a woman asks, two pistols aimed my way.
“The new guy,” I say. “Rhett Carter. Hunter of witches. Defender of humanity. I come in peace.” I scan the faces around me, none of which look too friendly. Young, old, black, white, male, female—they’re all frowning.
“I’ve heard of you,” the woman says. She’s got spikey hair with a white skunk-like stripe down the center, and her ears are full of at least a dozen piercings. Wearing only a tank top and ripped jeans, almost every inch of bare skin is covered with colorful tats. “There was supposed to be a bounty on your head. Only a half-hour ago we were told it had been released.”
I look at the weapons all around me. “I guess you weren’t told to expect me?”
“Naw,” she says, a tongue ring flashing between her teeth. “We thought it probably meant you were dead.”
“Nearly dead on many occasions, but not just yet,” I say.
“So you’ve come over from the dark side,” she says.
“I was never on the dark side,” I say.
“Yeah. Neither was I,” she says, sarcasm heavy in her voice. “Look, no one’s here to make friends, so don’t expect any. We eat together, sleep together”—I consider making a joke Laney would appreciate, but manage to hold my tongue—“fight together, and die together…but that doesn’t make us friends. Got it?”
Welcome to the team, I think. “Got it,” I say.
“Everyone calls me Floss,” she says.
Umm, interesting name. “Okay,” I say.
“Now I think there have been enough interruptions for one night. We have witches to kill tomorrow. Grab a bedroll and shut the hell up.” It’s funny that she’d say that when she’s been doing most of the talking.
But that’s what I do. I try to ignore the witch hunters around me, who lo
wer their weapons far too slowly for my liking, and snag an unclaimed bedroll, hoping the last person who used it took a bath every once in a while. With Hex tucked tightly against my side, I try to sleep next to Lincoln’s headless statue, wishing Laney was with me.
~~~
“Tomorrow” comes at sunrise. I awake before most, but not all. Some of the witch hunters are already eating, speaking in hushed tones, sharpening or cleaning their weapons.
And Hex is missing.
“Anyone seen my dog?” I say to no one in particular.
One guy, who looks as old and gnarled as a tree branch, points outside. Thanks for that. I could’ve guessed if he wasn’t inside he’d have gone outside. But, not wanting to make any enemies on my first day, I mutter, “Thanks,” grab my pack, and head outside.
The day is cast in the red glow of the rising sun. There’s a neon green puddle in front of the Lincoln Memorial. Hex has been here, using one of America’s most revered tourist attractions as his personal toilet.
I look around, but he’s nowhere to be found. Instead I find the skunk-haired woman, Floss, from last night approaching from the direction of the Potomac River. Her hair, still spiked, looks wet.
“Hey,” I say.
“I’m not your fri—”
“I get it,” I say. “I’m not trying to be your friend. I’m just looking for my dog.”
She raises an eyebrow. “I saw him heading for Huckle’s shop.”
Both my eyebrows go up, a bubble of excitement forming in the pit of my stomach. “Tillman Huckle is here?”
“You didn’t know? Yeah, he arrived a week ago and set up shop over by the Washington Monument.”
“Great, thanks,” I say, rushing away.
“Wrong way,” she says, pointing me in the other direction.
I pivot and turn the other way, sprinting, but she takes a step and blocks me. “Hold on a sec,” she says.
I stop, fighting the urge to lower my shoulder and bash right through her. I feel light on my feet because Tillman Huckle is here! Last I spoke to the magical weapons dealer, he’d been heading south with a van full of magical weapons and video games. Makes sense he would end up here, considering the growing population of witch hunters residing inside the fence.